The Brothers Karamazov

First Impressions...

Guilt

The eternal damnation of the soul. I guess I am expecting one of the brothers to suffer in a more or less conventional manner for the patricide. This will not be an entirely pleasurable reading experience, because I will be much too aware of my own guilt through the pleasure of voyeurism. I do expect the courtroom sequence to demonstrate that we all suffer by one person’s guilt; likewise do we share that person’s culpability. Dostoevsky is probably aware of this fact, as he pursues the societal construction of individual guilt through the exploration of the Karamazov family history. Whomever happens to be the murderer will not be solely responsible. For the individual act of participating in that particular event of killing he will surely act alone. Yet the conscience – the psychology – of reaching such a brutal conclusion involves the entire family and extends to the entire human race. The fact that seemingly normal individuals have the same latent bloodlust as any criminal is proven by attendance at executions, such as the autos-da-fé. Father Zosima elucidated possible reasons for society’s wish to quickly exterminate the guilty. Criminals are continual reminders of our own (arrested) barbarity. The “fires of hell” such as Inquisitorial burnings allow humanity to forget our collective guilty conscience through sheer spectacle. Dostoevsky seems to imply that some ashes of guilt do remain upon humanity however. It is simple: the fires of hell represent “the suffering of one who can no longer love”. He implies that akin to Jesus we as a civilization must love our enemies instead of burning them and submerging the ashes under our collective conscience.

Who is to be Guilty?

The individual Karamazovs have been moulded by their family history to reject society at the same time they apparently embrace it: Ivan hides behind his reason, compartmentalizing and justifying the world and his remoteness from it; Dmitri uses both love and violence in a process of self-ostracization which could eventually lead to his sharing of the contempt felt for the elder Karamazov by most people in the novel; Alyosha’s mysticism (asceticism) is perhaps the most conscious withdrawal from society; and Smerdyakov’s existence – or rather non-existence – as the bastard Karamozov is perhaps the most obvious instance of banishment in the text. It is not just for narrative reasons that Dostoevsky remains ambiguous concerning the guilty party through the opening sections of his text. He wishes to promote the fact that we are all capable of murder given extreme circumstances.

Impressed...

The notion of absolutes and universals has not been removed from the popular conscience despite the best efforts of many prolific post-modern thinkers. Contrary to Nietzsche, for the vast majority of people God is not in fact dead, in either the literal or abstract interpretation of that statement. Old universals have simply been replaced by newer ones promulgating their ideological liberalism while simultaneously rejecting the validity of “lesser” works. What has been more broadly accepted, however, has been the idea of allowing a more or less equal space to all viewpoints and means of expression. Technology is of primary influence on the creation of such a liberal society, as it has provided a means by which various ideologies can be expressed. Modern intellectual expression has to some extent become more exclusionary as a consequence; either one “gets it” or not. In several respects, Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov is conversely very much a self-contained text in terms of its ideological debate. In particular, the author seems to be positing the redemptive theology of Father Zosima against the ideology of the absurd espoused by Ivan Karamazov. Indeed, there are overtones of Platonic dialogue within these sequences of philosophical exposition. There are of course two viewpoints presented – a Pro and a Contra as explicitly laid out in Book V – yet there can be no arguing that the author himself wishes to present his particular doctrine, wherein he aligns himself with Zosima, as being a universal truth. Primarily, I will be focussing upon Ivan’s ideological position, with reference to Zosima’s much more optimistic and redemptive theology.

Certainly there is little room for the application of late-twentieth century ideological liberalism to Dostoevsky’s writing, although Ivan’s nihilistic ideology does seem to suggest a more modern and existential school of thought. There is of course no doubting Dostoevsky’s religious opinions; his theology is both piously and devoutly expressed in many of his works. Yet, while he does not in fact question the ultimate absolute of God, he does imply other universals to be rather arbitrary. Most obvious is his treatment of guilt and justice in the novel. There is no simple explanation of individual culpability; no character is condemned outright. This belief is shared by both Ivan and Father Zosima. Dostoevsky seemed to want to focus upon the psychological and sociological aspects of criminal behaviour, and this is expressed throughout his works. As a consequence, he implies that justice itself is not a universal in terms simple cause and effect dispensation, in other words that crime x should receive punishment y. Throughout The Brothers Karamazov Dostoevsky undermines such a simplistic notion of earthly justice, and instead submits his characters to a more absolute jurisprudence. Ultimately for the author, and as Father Zosima states, justice must emerge from a personal communication with the divine.

From the very start of the novel, Dostoevsky suggests a very modern concept of guilt and justice by subverting its conventions. In one particular respect, his opinions concerning judiciary practise are in fact even more enlightened than those which currently exist in most of the industrialized world. If one is to interpret the entirety of his writing with respect to Dostoevsky’s theology, it becomes readily clear that his beliefs concerning justice do in fact originate in terms of guilt before the divine, although there is no practical or ideological reason that it should remain within a theological realm; a secular practise can be instructed by religious belief. In terms of theological origination, all of mankind shares in the guilt from the original fall from grace; the flesh must be transcended before innocence is regained. One cannot therefore simplistically denounce others for their crimes while supposing themselves to be above any such abhorrent behaviour. As Father Zosima states, “you cannot be anyone’s judge. No man on earth can judge a criminal until he understands that he himself is just as guilty as the man standing before him and that he may be responsible than anyone else for the crime” (p. 388). Zosima teaches that one must act like Christ, accepting the guilt of others onto one’s own conscience (or soul, in wholly religious phrasing). Every individual is guilty if they do not provide an example of virtue to those for whom it is required. As a further extension, one must rejoice in the righteousness of others, for in this manner one can avoid being burdened by one’s own guilty conscience. Moreover, others must not be weighted down by one’s own guilt. Within this context Zosima’s behaviour towards Dmitri early in the text can be understood. Interpreted in terms of Zosima’s prophetic nature – evidenced by his oracular relationship with Alyosha – his supplication in front of Dmitri is arguably a plea for forgiveness for his upcoming false conviction, as Zosima would acknowledge that Dmitri’s trial is only an earthly one and therefore not the true justice of God’s mercy. In many ways, Zosima acts as prognosticator to many of the other characters in the text as well. It becomes painfully clear by the end of the text that Zosima’s statements are reflected in Ivan’s constitution; ostensibly Dostoevsky is presenting Ivan’s tragedy as an example of the correctness of Zosima’s theology. Ivan’s suicide is resultant from the absurdity he sees in the world. As he states in book V, he will not choose to exist in a society which condones the suffering of the innocent to justify salvation for the rest. Yet Ivan counters himself when he states that he cannot love those people whom he actually encounters; they are no longer the innocents that he believed them to be, and conversely he feels a deep sense of revulsion towards them. Consequently, he believes that love can not truly exist in the world, and that the notion of ultimate love as professed by Zosima to be an impossibility: “Christ’s love for human beings was an impossible miracle on earth” (p. 284). Love for Ivan is a purely theoretical concept, a pure abstraction with no material plausibility. Hatred seems to be directed towards beggars and other unfortunates in particular, perhaps because they are physical manifestations of Zosima’s theology – in other words, following Zosima, one must give aid to beggars precisely because one is not a beggar. Ivan’s beliefs seem to be very much related to his father’s self-absorption and lack of sympathy for others; he has internalized these beliefs almost as much as his brother Smerdyakov. One particular instance later in the novel suggests that Ivan does in fact feel some sense of social indebtedness towards others. With the sequence in which Ivan picks up the drunk peasant and finds shelter for him, Dostoevsky seems to suggest that despite his character’s coldheartedness, even Ivan has a basic sense of human decency that cannot be disregarded.

In thoroughly secular terms, mitigating circumstances must be considered for a society to dispense proper justice. In The Brothers Karamazov, the primary mitigating circumstance is of course the elder Karamazov himself. Throughout the text, he is portrayed as a brute and uncaring man, almost beastly in his pursuit of self-gratification. In essence, it is his relationship with his sons which creates a situation in which any of them could be driven to murder their father. Ivan proves himself strangely prophetic when in detailing the story of a murderer who had been brutally raised by his parents. Certainly the actual act in broad terms is itself not completely foreign to anybody, although for the vast majority of people it is an impulse left repressed for the course of their lives. This impetus does find a means of expression however, although this form of bloodlust is vicarious in nature. Until the evolution of modern visual media, tendencies for the vicarious expression of violence did in fact involve the real suffering of others, either through violent sporting events such as hunts and staged combat, or through officially bureaucratic public executions, such as the autos-da-fé described in the Grand Inquisitor chapter of the novel. This section also elucidates the notion of why society desires the eradication of its criminal elements. They are continual reminders of the arrested barbarity of every individual; their execution or imprisonment is an attempt to cleanse the collective conscience of a community. As Zosima states in book VI, the fires of hell are simple allegory, a spectacle which allows humanity to forget its collective guilt. A society will destroy its criminal elements, but will not arrest the ultimate cause of criminal behaviour. For Zosima this is a simple instance of lack of true faith, of ignoring genuine religious practise as it requires too much of a sacrifice to forgive criminals for their behaviour.

To Ivan however, justice is merely an expression of humanity’s latent barbarousness. Public executions are merely a communal forum in which the desire to witness another’s suffering is officially sanctioned. It matters not whether those sentenced are in fact innocent or guilty, as the punishment is both the trial and the conviction. Neither does it matter whether the punishment will arrest any future criminal activity, as it serves its immediate purpose to appease the bloodlust of the masses. It is for this reason that Ivan rejects any concept of the righteous salvation of the damned. The contempt that he feels toward the religious who believe they have attained this state of grace is fairly explicit when he describes the execution of a vicious murderer:

And the next thing, brother Richard, covered with the kisses of
all his brothers and sisters, was dragged up onto the scaffold, placed
under the knife of the guillotine, had his head chopped off in the
most brotherly fashion, and gained eternal bliss.
(p. 289)

For Ivan, the idea of a murderer finding salvation through an execution is akin to redemption of society through the torture of a child. Just as the chaplains at the execution reach a state of religious fervour, so does the torturer enter a state of bliss while he is performing his violence upon another. Each is identical in that the suffering of another becomes a source of pleasure and self-gratification. Throughout his philosophizing, Ivan demonstrates his agreement with the Marquis De Sade in stating that all instances of love are in fact various forms of dependency. It is a simple binary: lovers need those who requite their love, just as torturers need the object of their ferocity. Indeed, it becomes an essential element of an individual’s identity, and Ivan seems almost humourously to suggest that through the internalization of brutality, Russians have created their national identity: “To us, nailing people by their ears is unthinkable because, despite everything, we are Europeans. But birch and lash, they’re different – they’re something that’s really ours and cannot be taken away from us” (p. 287). Man has a very refined sense of cruelty, and the act of torture becomes art in and of itself. There is no real other motive than sheer pleasure in witnessing and inflicting suffering upon others. It is within this context that Ivan views any sense of religious love as wicked, for the religious need (and love) the sinful because it is through them that good and evil are defined. He vehemently rejects such a existence: “I’d rather not know about their damn good and evil than pay such a terrible price for it. I feel that all universal knowledge is not worth that child’s tears when she was begging ‘gentle Jesus’ to help her” (p. 291). His arguments do not demonstrate any confidence that there is a solution to the tragic fate of humanity, and consequently his nihilistic mentality and belief in the ultimate absurdity of all existence lead to his suicide. Humanity will ultimately destroy itself in an orgy of violent self-gratification; it will voraciously consume itself and enjoy the taste.

Ivan’s entire discourse to Alyosha is very much an example of this process, as he quite explicitly delights in the rather disgusted reactions which he stimulates in his brother. Not only does he revel in the barbaric details of his lecture, at times he seems to internalize them himself and act out the part. In describing the “justice” of a general who kills a child for a relatively minor misdemeanour, he begins to shout at Alyosha much like the general himself might have: “Perhaps he ought to have been shot, to satisfy the moral indignation that such an act arouses in us? Well, speak up, my boy, go on!” (p. 292). The frequent use of children in his examples is of course demonstrative of Ivan’s extremism. Were he to rely on more median examples of earthly suffering – as more commonly exists in the world – his arguments would lose some of their merit. Of course, one must forgive suicides for their extremism, as such is their nature. His rebellion against the traditional doctrines of Christianity is not entirely complete, however, as even he desires a Christ figure for redemption. Only by accepting the suffering caused by existence will anyone find salvation: “I want to see with my own eyes the lamb lie down with the lion and the resurrected victim rise and embrace his murderer” (p. 294). Just as the lion must kill the lamb for that is the lion’s essence and purpose, so must the torturer inflict suffering for that is its purpose. Surely such a tenant is a difficult one for the majority of people to accept. Ivan’s suicide is proof that even he could not believe in such an existence.

Ivan’s philosophical beliefs are very important in order to fully understand his character. That this section of the novel is just as equally detailed as a later book which presents Zosima’s complex theology suggests that Dostoevsky wanted the reader to compare the two. It is a somewhat subtle manner in which an opinion can be conveyed to the reader. Dostoevsky does in fact intend his audience to be more convinced by Zosima’s devout theology than Ivan’s proto-existentialism. Yet each is allowed a voice; the reader naturally becomes an advocate for one or the other. Certainly there is some truth in Ivan’s ideological stance, although the fact that there he has no hope or sense of purpose draws one away from his nihilism. By the end of the novel, it is quite obvious that Dostoevsky has presented an ideology which cannot function, for it is far too destructive for those who practise it.

Bibliography

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Brothers Karamavoz. Trans. Andrew H. MacAndrew. Toronto:
Bantam Books, 1981.

Quentin's Tarrentino-esque Suicide in The Sound and the Fury

One of the main concerns facing many readers of Faulkner centres upon the interpretation of his frequently non-linear and freely associative narrative techniques, usually referred to as stream of consciousness writing. The Sound and the Fury is no exception, as the first two sections of the novel are written from the perspective of a mentally handicapped adult and a neurotic and suicidal adolescent (or young post-adolescent). However, it is through these rather disjointed narratives that one can more fully appreciate the relationships between the various family members. The principle focus of Faulkner’s text is Caddy, the sole daughter in the Compson household. While Benjy was certainly loved by his sister, there seems to be a much closer relationship between her and Quentin. Throughout his section of the narrative, Quentin almost single-mindedly concentrates on his sister, reliving old memories to the point of confusing them with his contemporary world: “How many where there?”. His narrative – in a sense ‘a day in the life’ of a mentally unstable individual – is much more disjointed and seemingly arbitrary than Benjy’s, which despite its free association of memories still retained a cohesive structure. Once a reader begins to understand Benjy’s conventions his text is rather easy to comprehend. Alternately, Quentin’s narrative continually degenerates into a neurotic stream of consciousness, especially toward the end of his section as he approaches the moment of his suicide.

Quentin’s section is perhaps most vividly able to portray the corruption of the entire Compson family (or dynasty, as Faulkner relates in his Appendix to this novel, which traces the Compsons from colonial times). It is he who seems to be the last “great white hope” for his family, and it is for him that a part of the estate is sold to pay for a Harvard education. Of all the members of the family except perhaps his mother, it is Quentin who most fully internalizes the concept of the majestic old South along with a sense of southern nobility. Within this context he is to be the defender of his sister, and indeed as the eldest son, he must act to protect the entire family. When Quentin reveals his feelings toward his sister in relation to her involvement with Dalton Ames, there is a profound sense of powerlessness in his thoughts. In fact, one could argue that he has not only internalized the southern chivalric code, but the extreme sense of meaninglessness and absurdity felt by the South after the American Civil War. It is possible to understand his rather pathetic “fighting spirit” in regards to this profound sense of purposelessness. There are in fact two fights in this section of the novel, although Quentin’s narrative confuses the two. Early in the year he had challenged Dalton Ames to a duel in order that Caddy’s honour could be reclaimed, which he of course believed to have been tarnished by their sexual relationship. Dalton had refused the challenge, and apparently while remembering this instance, Quentin proceeded to lash out at Gerald Bland, who promptly defended himself by bloodying his attacker. Such violent tendencies reflect a self-hatred and nihilism inherent in suicidal individuals: the urge to fight a superior opponent, which was the case with both Ames and Bland, is a repressed desire to kill oneself.

So what does in fact lead to Quentin’s suicide? Certainly there are numerous factors in such an maximal and final decision. The aforementioned sense of powerlessness, despite adherence to the Southern code of chivalry and nobility, extended into everything surrounding Quentin. He tried to argue against his father’s nihilism, yet everywhere he looked was evidence to support an absurd existence. Yet the most overwhelming element present in Quentin’s section is his relationship with his sister Caddy. Much like many men throughout recorded history he views his sister within the virgin / whore paradigm. For him his entire sense of Southern nobility is maintained by his sister’s virginity, and its loss is the final proof for Quentin of the degeneration of that mentality, and as well that all existence is absurd. When he proclaims to his father that it was in fact he who took his sister’s virginity, he is attempting to preserve her dignity by (in a sense) “keeping it in the family”. Yet this very passage demonstrates how corrupt his vision of Southern chivalry has in fact become. Perhaps it even portrays the extent to which his mind has become unhinged and all his thoughts are theoretical. Certainly his life is lived in the abstract: one cannot interpret Quentin’s perception of time, as depicted in the clockmaker sequence, as a perception of reality. When everything has lost its physicality and becomes completely abstracted, a concept such as self-destruction through suicide is entirely feasible.

There is very much a perception in Quentin’s section (as well as in Jason’s narrative) that Caddy’s awakening sexuality precipitates the downfall of the entire Compson dynasty. Faulkner’s emphasis upon her soiled underpants in Benjy’s section – she had climbed a tree that her brothers could not to look upon death, and consequently revealed her undergarments – is perhaps a rather obvious metaphor, yet it does succeed in anticipating both Quentin’s and Jason’s opinions of their sister as revealed in their later monologues. One is therefore left to wonder whether it was in fact the sins of Caddy – if such rather normal adolescent behaviour can be so negatively labelled – which will motivate the downfall of the Compson family.

Speaking: The Silent History of Coetzee and Rushdie

When looking at civilization, or indeed any notion of humanity whether collective or individual, one naturally presupposes language to be fundamental to its structure and development. Such assumptions are not without validity, as communication does principally create civilization on its many levels. Arguably, culture is itself the superstructure above this act of communication within a society. Within this context it is possible to observe how culture and language are determined by the social structures within a society; those that are in positions of power regulate both the medium and the content of culture. Throughout Foe, J. M. Coetzee consistently demonstrates the implications of power structures on language and the ability to communicate. The protagonist herself struggles to convey her story despite cultural limitations, as she begins to understand that though she cannot tell her own story, using another author removes her voice. Foe consequently uses his cultural dominance to dictate the constituency of a proper story, yet throughout the text Susan pursues her own narrative, and indeed the nature of her own position within that story. Most prominent however is the portrayal of the mute slave Friday, whose subservience is so thorough that he can barely understand or respond to others. Susan herself attempts to engage in a dialogue with him, but he remains mute to her. One cannot disavow Friday an element of his own agency however, as Susan’s pursuit of his story, despite his silence, largely precipitates the story that Coetzee presents to the reader. Indeed, taken as a whole the premise of Foe is that of the agency of the subservient. It is when the repressed characters become aware of their mutual relationship with authoritative voices and subsequently engage with them that a measure of independence and freedom is gained. In Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie presents such a character in Saleem Sinai, who is able to find his voice over the course of the novel. Saleem’s struggle with identity emerges most prominently in the textual realm; his autobiography is the means by which he realizes his authority. Principally, it is the loss of his telepathic abilities which precipitates Saleem to find his ‘true’ voice, namely the creation of both the story itself and a child of his own. Rushdie’s text consequently seems to imply that the process of emancipation is itself both a creative and a living process, existing as both problem and solution. Harkening to the Lacanian concept of the infinite origins of mimicry and double articulation, Saleem struggles throughout Midnight’s Children to create the text which is ultimately to become Rushdie’s novel. Both Rushdie and Coetzee are aware of their fundamental mimicry and usurpation of power from colonial authorities; it is in this manner that their principle characters can themselves become authors.

The first section of Foe is a direct narrative of Susan’s life on Crusoe’s island told from her own perspective. As such it must of course be analysed in light of the narrator’s biases – in particular, that Susan does not have access to the ‘truth’ behind the events of their stay on the island as either Crusoe or Friday perceive it – yet that is precisely one of the main themes of the novel as a whole. Upon her return to England, she attempts to bring her experiences into a cohesive narrative to be shared with the reading public and endeavours to remain as ‘factual’ as possible. It is important for the narrative to be her own, and she commences in a similar manner as other tales of maritime adventure. The beginnings of both the first section and her story-within-a-story description of events to Crusoe are routine for such narratives: “At last I could row no further” (Coetzee, p. 5); and then speaking, like the famous Ishmael, to Crusoe, “My name is Susan Barton ... I was cast adrift by the crew of the ship yonder” (p. 9). Each instance stresses the importance of Susan as an individual within the narrative, and there is no doubt that this is her story. Yet such conventions originate in masculine adventure narratives, and Susan quickly learns that she cannot incorporate all the elements that she wants into this framework. Her desire to include accounts from both Crusoe and Friday to complete her narrative is frustrated when she discovers that she cannot do so. There is no possibility of Friday revealing his story to her, neither can the recently dead Crusoe, for “who but Crusoe, who is no more, could truly tell you Crusoe’s story?” (p. 51). While she does attempt to engage Friday in order to reveal his story, which will be further discussed below, it becomes apparent that regardless of its validity, his story – or indeed that of any of the characters from the island – is largely irrelevant to readers. Such becomes manifest during her supposed collaboration with Foe, who subsumes Susan’s account into his own narrative. She felt that she could not write the text herself, for she cannot truly find her own voice within the silence of both Friday and Crusoe. She does not feel that it is her right to speak for them, although others, namely Foe himself, do not hesitate to speak for her until she rejects his authorial methods, upon which he withdraws into silence.

Susan believes that she requires Foe for precisely the reason that she struggles to find her own voice. As a man involved with British culture, and indeed one of it’s most articulate exponents, Foe represents the dominant culture from which Susan as a woman is largely excluded. Susan doubts her ability to produce a cohesive narrative within the confines of the patriarchal culture. Literary society – which in the eighteenth century largely restrained women as marginal figures – required a focus for texts, a point to be reached, and one which Susan could not provide: “my stories always have more applications than I intend, so that I must go back and laboriously extract the right application and apologize for the wrong ones and efface them. Some people are born story tellers; I, it would seem, am not” (p. 81). Susan is here fighting with the knowledge that history does not emerge from a single narrative, instead it is much more subjective. The very existence of the text of Foe proves the disparity that Susan feels between what she should say according to social convention and what she believes needs to be said. It is this struggle which provides thematic and narrative continuity to Coetzee’s text and proves, to modern readers at least, that Susan would indeed have been an able storyteller. She believes that storytelling is a live medium better suited to oral transmission since “a liveliness is lost in the writing down which must be supplied by art” (p. 40), and therefore any story will contain more of the soul of the author than elements of truth. Stories are living entities informed by the teller, they are products of a creative process akin to eroticism, and therefore requires the participation of the author within the narrative. Susan continually refers to physical love as the basis for narratives, saying that the “tongue is like the heart” (p. 85) and that “without desire how is it possible to make a story?” (p. 88). Certainly there was some level of desire on the island, foremost was obviously Susan’s desire to escape back to England, but also her sexual feelings shared with Crusoe were important. Regardless, such themes would be ill-suited to the phallocentric British society, which would inscribe its own voice on her narrative for “he has the last word who disposes over the greatest force” (p. 124), which of course if not necessarily Susan herself.

Perhaps most important to finding her own voice is Susan’s desire to engage others in a dialogue to conjoin her own narrative. It is in this sense that a sense of ‘truth’ would emerge from a multiplicity of voices. Yet such simultaneous narration is deemed too divided by the contemporary literary culture, as personified by Foe in the text. Susan wants the truth of the events that occurred on the island to liberate her, in a fashion, from the dominance of others. Her story would demonstrate that a woman is just as independent a creature as a man. Symbolically and practically the island was her freedom, as it was there that she was agent to her own emancipation. Yet upon her return to England, she finds that she cannot convey her story as she lacks both the publishing credentials of someone like Foe and the ability to write as a woman within British culture of the time. It is because of the internalization of cultural norms which exclude her that Susan feels that she must apologize for her “wrong applications”. She therefore denies the validity of her own voice and instead believes herself to be as a Muse to Foe while he writes her story. However, she quickly learns that she will not achieve freedom by his pen. Foe’s writing is not any real account of her life on the island but instead a more elaborate account which she ultimately rejects: “You know how dull our life was, in truth. We faced no perils, no ravenous beasts, not even serpents. Food was plentiful, the sun was mild. No pirates landed on our shores, no freebooters, no cannibals” (p. 81). Susan does not gain the liberation of free communication through Foe, quite contrarily his writing literally imprisons Susan and Friday within his house. Foe wants Susan to be secondary to his narrative, and indeed his writing leads to the creation of a second Susan, a character who believes she in fact is Susan Barton. He begins to contradict her, and attempts to convince her to accept this second Susan and presuppose a narrative which she is trying to reject:

Foe smiled. ‘Tell me more of Bahia,’ he said.
‘There is much to be said of Bahia. Bahia is a world in itself. But why? Bahia
is not the island. Bahia was but a stepping stone on my way.’
‘That may not be so,’ replied Foe cautiously. ‘Rehearse your story and you will see.”
(p. 116)

Foe then proceeds to create his own narrative, effectively removing Susan from her own story; to him a sequential narrative is more important. Only one hero is required for Foe, and other narratives – namely those of Friday, Crusoe, and in effect Susan herself – would only be distracting and more importantly it would be outside of the literary tradition. Despite being aided by numerous assistants, Odysseus, Jason of the Argonauts, Aeneas, and Crusoe in Defoe’s original text – all effectively stood alone during their travels. Foe in fact creates her story as if it were his own, as though he had himself been a castaway, and more importantly it becomes a story which adheres perfectly with the patriarchal society in which they live, with “five parts in all ... it is thus that we make up a book” (p. 117).

Susan does not allow Foe to be sole narrator of the text, however. Initially she counters Foe’s authoring of a palatable story for the English masses by rejecting his attempts to subserve her life to that narrative as well as the inscriptions that he places upon her:
if I were a mere receptacle ready to accommodate whatever story is
stuffed in me, surely you would dismiss me, surely you would say to your-
self, “This is no woman but a house of words, hollow, without substance”?
‘I am not a story, Mr. Foe.
(pp. 130-1)

Despite what Foe is trying to do to her, Susan firmly believes that she is greater than the story, and indeed, there is more to the character than is presented by Coetzee; her life does not begin with the first paragraph of part I. She learns from her isolation with Friday in Foe’s house that she must more actively involve herself in the story’s creation. To this end she attempts to engage both Friday and Foe himself into the narrative. Susan intends to become a subject for Foe in both senses of the word. His repressive acts do remove her identity to a great extent, yet not to the extreme of her entirely doubting herself or her voice. She never displays any uncertainty concerning the second Susan but remains adamant that she herself is the real Susan, despite Foe’s intentions. Simultaneously however, in many instances she does demonstrate her own agency: when she has a sexual encounter with Foe; the letters of Part II, originally meant for Foe but much more of her own narrative voice to be read by others.

More informative are the initiatives taken with Friday in order to allow his story to emerge. It is from these instances that a voice emerges for Susan. At the same time however, these passages demonstrate the extent to which Friday has himself become a subject to both the colonial power and the narrative itself. He had of course once been a slave, and to the British he will always remain so. Susan’s efforts to ‘free’ him from servitude do not in fact liberate him from colonial rule; indeed, that she inscribes her own values and an identity upon him is made quite evident when she fashions for him a ‘freedom sack’, containing his manumission papers, to be worn around his neck. Many times she mimics Foe in inscribing her own words upon Friday in place of his own voice: “I say he is a cannibal, he becomes a cannibal; I say he is a laundryman and he becomes a laundryman ... what he is to the world is what I make of him” (pp. 121-2). More telling are her attempts to probe Friday for his story, despite his inability to communicate in any but the most basic manner. It is this probing that allows Coetzee’s narrative a continuity and indeed remains the locus for the text. Susan senses something in Friday that she cannot truly fathom until the final part of the text. Throughout her interaction with Friday, there is an agency in his silence and indeed in his slavery on the island of which she becomes aware:

Why, during all those years alone with Crusoe, did you submit to his rule,
when you might easily have slain him, or blinded him and made him into
your slave in turn? Is there something in the condition of slavehood that
invades the heart and makes a slave a slave for life”
(p. 85)
Friday has to a certain degree internalized his own servitude, yet more importantly, he exists within a different medium than either Susan, Crusoe, or Foe, and one in which Susan herself longs to live. Friday is not confined to the slippery signification of identity with which all of the other characters remain burdened, continually exchanging positions of master-slave, self-other, and Subject-subject. Instead he remains outside of such a system; his existence is more pure and untainted by the identity construction which others inscribe upon him. To a great extent it is his lack of language which allows Friday to be free of such encumbrances of society. The final part of the text suggests that Susan herself has begun to understand the nature of his existence: “This is a place where bodies are their own signs. It is the home of Friday” (p. 137). It is within this context that one can more fully understand the association continually made between writing and sexual desire. By doing so, Susan is endeavouring to unite Friday’s pure world of ‘body-as-sign’ with the literary world of slippery signification, and consequently find a means of communication. Arguably, Susan cannot remove the social constructs which bind her from such a place, however much she longs to join Friday. She is far too much like Foe, and her dependency on language is far too great.

Rushdie’s text is very much a literal interpretation of this concept of ‘body-as-sign’; indeed, in many respects it is fundamental to his narrative. Certainly Saleem never lives in the pure state that Friday inhabits, as throughout most of his life he is defined by others, first as the miracle First-born of the newly liberated India, and later in much more insulting terms by his childhood peers. More significantly, Saleem never transcends language as Friday had. Coetzee’s slave is very much an outcast from society, and in this sense he achieves purity. Saleem’s (and as an extension, Rushdie’s) quest is not to reject society but rather to subvert its traditions. Language therefore becomes what he desires it to be, namely an Indian language spoken using English. Rushdie appropriates the narrative and stylistic traditions of the English canon to cohere into a new unified whole. The novel consequently becomes an apparatus by which Saleem-as-native-Indian becomes the dominant voice, and does not remain the mysterious Other of western convention. Throughout Midnight’s Children, Rushdie emphasizes the physicality of life, ostensibly as a counter to the idealizing process in which India had been previously defined. Consequently all of the references to traditional Indian culture are used to subvert the dominant language structure. Rushdie invents new words to describe his process, which can perhaps best be expressed by his equation of the text with cooking, and in particular with chutney. Rushdie uses this term as a signifier for this re-appropriation: his “chutnification” of the text is the process of claiming traditional elements of narrative construction and re-creating them within a new context, inflected with ‘Indian’ elements. It is this fundamental subversion of conventional narratives which allows Rushdie (and of course Saleem; the text is “autobiographical”) to extract himself from the hierarchy of language constructed by the west, critique it objectively, and ultimately to tell his narrative using his own voice.

Saleem himself exists in a world in which every part and function of the body is a representation of the body-politic of India. Every one of the midnight children is gifted in terms of bodily ability, Saleem and Shiva having inherited the most potent abilities as they were born most immediately after India’s independence. It could be argued that Rushdie is being quite blatant in his metaphor of the children of midnight. Certainly they represent the new hopes and desires felt by India upon achieving sovereignty, yet Rushdie quickly demonstrates the complexity of his allegory. The midnight children are uniquely Indian, at least in terms of western stereotypes derived from Moslem origins. In structural terms they are the spices which contribute to the “chutnification” of the text. Nearly all of them are copies of the djinn and mystics of the tales from the Thousand and One Nights, and this textual citation serves to hint at Rushdie’s intentions. Throughout British rule India was given an identity, inscribed by the western world and one to which it could not live up. Rushdie appropriates these images into his narrative to demonstrate the adversity India has to face in order to truly achieve independence. The children of midnight are not solely the hopes and dreams of a nation, they are the old baggage of colonial bondage which must be excised from India’s consciousness in order for the nation to become free. They must become not the special Thousand-and-One Others representing Indian fantasy to the Western world, but alternately they need to be sublimated as 0.00007 percent of the modern Indian population as Saleem states in the prison sequence. Ancient mysticism must be sublimated in turn to modern rationalism. Consequently the thousand-and-one are captured by the government; some are never to be released, some are castrated and some are killed. Saleem is doubly lucky, in a sense, as he is merely castrated, released and lives to construct his story. His castration ultimately does not hinder his procreative ability, as he adopts a child fathered by his Other, Shiva. The final chapters of the text concentrate on this child, upon whom he casts his own dreams and expectations for the future.

Saleem’s struggle for freedom in a very real (and Lacanian) sense becomes the liberation that he is seeking after; his efforts to achieve self-realization are in fact themselves the elements of that self-realization. Much like Susan he has to contend with desire as the basis for narrative expression, yet he never embraces physical love as she had. Throughout the text Padma acts as an agency for his desire, yet Saleem sublimates his feelings into the creation of the text itself, rather than realize them with her. True enough, his reticency is influenced by his inability to produce children, and especially in the early part of the text his ‘procreative’ concerns are very real and become manifest in terms of doubts towards his text as often he stops and begins writing again. He is once afflicted by writer’s block, but frequently doubts the validity of his text. Padma leads him to continue along his narrative, in fact her urges seem almost desperate at times: “You better get a move on or you’ll die before you get yourself born” (Rushdie, p. 38). By the end of the text it becomes quite clear that he has in fact been reborn, and part of this process involves the realization of his feelings for Padma. Consequently it is hardly surprising that they engage to be married in the final chapters. More to the point, this process of self-actualization through the text leads Saleem to the creation of his own history. There is little denying that history is itself a construction and not in any way a ‘fact’, therefore we can excuse Saleem – as he excuses himself – a few non-factual creations in his story:

I fell victim to the temptation of every autobiographer, to the
illusion that since the past exists only in one’s memories and
the words which strive vainly to encapsulate them, it is possible
to create past events simply by saying they occurred.
(p. 529)

Yet it is his history, in which he is his own agent; despite Rushdie’s allegorical implications for national representation, its immediate relevance is only to himself. More importantly it is a modern tale, and one of progress and self-actualization. Any sense a reader may have about Saleem’s oppression by the traditional history of India-as-repressed-nation is ultimately rejected by Rushdie’s use of fantastical elements. India will not be defined by its history or any other convention which have to a great extent been ascribed to it by western writers. In other words, India will become modern India by a re-appropriation of western stereotypes in order to write a history for itself. Saleem achieves his own independence in this manner, and in actuality from the very start of the text Rushdie hints that this will occur:

I was born in the city of Bombay ... once upon a time. No, that
won’t do, there’s no getting away from the date: I was born in
Doctor Narlikar’s Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the
time? The time matters too.
(p. 1)

Saleem’s story will not begin like another fantastical tale from the Arabian Nights; he gives himself all the details which are important in the construction of his history. The fact that his birth is the birth of an independent India is of course part of Rushdie’s allegory, yet to Saleem it is important that this is his story, and not of India as a whole. It is for this reason that Saleem envies himself in his domestic position – as dwarf with no greater purpose – by the end of the text.

More importantly, Saleem’s connection to the other children allows him to use their voices to realize his own. At first he believes himself to be the voice of India, or more accurately the voices of all India. It is his telepathic abilities which allow the children of midnight to become a unified group, who would then ostensibly communicate to the world through him. Rushdie immediately undermines such romantic dreams by portraying the MCC as a group of bickering children who cannot truly be unified. Regardless, the children ultimately do not exist for such a purpose; their downfall is not the tragedy of the novel. Saleem cannot be the leader of India nor even of the MCC – despite his continual statements that his fate is the fate of all nations. Indeed, such turns out to be true, but not in the literal sense which he expects in the early sections of the novel. He will not be a leader by example, but rather a leader by allegorical representation. When he loses his telepathic ability, he realizes his fate is in fact true as he becomes a symbol not only for India, but for every nation as he so frequently says. Both colonial and imperial nations will achieve independence by using their national history as an informative text used to aid progress, not as a set of rules which need to be followed. Saleem cannot remain a djinn just as India cannot remain a colonial dependent viewed by the Western world as the mysterious Orient. He is consequently relieved when his powers are taken from him: “The young-old face of the dwarf in the mirror wore an expression of profound relief” (p. 534). India must exist as a living entity not oppressed by its history; it must be omnipresent in the wholly literal meaning of the term. In order for this state to be realized, any rigid definitions must be rejected, most notably those which are inscribed involuntarily. India will not be what it once was, it will not be what other nations prescribe it to be; India will define itself. The turmoil of the middle section of the novel demonstrates that this process is not a clean one, but rather it is violent and uncertain. Yet it is a process which India will undertake for itself. It is for this reason that Saleem feels that he achieves purity as the Indian bombs fall on Pakistan and his family is annihilated. Saleem’s story, at this point equated with the history of India, enters into a pure state in this sequence because the war is a demarcation of Indian self-governance and self-reliance. It is perhaps a bit problematic that Rushdie here implies that one cannot achieve independence until both life and death – and the ability to kill – are signifiers for liberation. Yet the war between India and Pakistan is to a great extent a purifying incident in the sense that it is the means by which the past becomes a mere narrative and not the sole influence for the future of the country. Neither will history – which of course had been created in both the narrative and the physical worlds by the west – be a defining influence on the present state of India. Rushdie’s implication remains: it is only in this context that nations as well as individuals can realize true freedom.

Many texts have examined the impact of social structure on language and communication, and a number of theoretical works have been advanced sharing similar views. The relationships between the dominant and subservient classes are not simple ‘give-and-take’, but instead form a complex of interdependency; each internalizes the supposed roles of the other. Within this context, Susan – a character repressed in many way by her society – must find a voice with which she can create her story. It is her struggle to find this voice, undertaken largely through the voices of others, that forms the locus of Coetzee’s narrative. The final section of the text seems to suggest that she has succeeded in finding such a voice by understanding Friday’s silence, and there is little evidence to doubt her newly discovered communicative freedom. For Rushdie the process of reclaiming authority over language is similar. Saleem uses the voices of others to find his own, yet more important is their silence. His loss of the gift he was given at birth is the means by which he unites the imperial voice with the silence of colonial dependency to create a new language, namely the “chutnification” of the old one. The process of self-liberation for both Susan and Saleem is a purifying one as each becomes aware of the importance of their authority. Fundamentally this rejection of foreign agency and identity construction is the goal of all post-colonial literatures.



Bibliography

Coetzee, J.M. Foe. London: Penguin Books, 1986.
Rushdie, Salman. Midnight’s Children. London: Penguin Books, 1991.

Elton and the English Church - A Brief Historiographical Look at Scholarship Concerning the English Church Under Henry VIII

Perhaps the most widely recognized aspect of the reign of Henry VIII – other than the girth and six wives which in large part constitute his ‘popular’ image – is his involvement in the English Reformation. There is little doubt that this event was one of the most important in the history of the British Isles, yet there is no real consensus among scholars of Henry’s own involvement in the matter. A few scholars have questioned the success of the Reform itself in accomplishing the ideological and practical goals which were established. Namely, there is little agreement whether the church was in fact guilty of wasting its resources through greed, sloth, and neglect of duty to which it had been charged by Protestant radicals. There is further disagreement about popular and clerical resistance to the Reformation. Ultimately, one must examine whether the English Church, in both its structure and practical operation, was indeed radically different after the Reformation. In looking at the Church under Henry’s rule I have chosen to focus largely on the events of the 1530's, although this is not an exclusive rule. For practical reasons I have taken
G. R. Elton’s study Reform & Reformation: England 1509-1558 as a baseline for comparison with other texts, largely because several other scholars refer to his work in their own studies. The individual biases of each author are made fairly evident in their texts, and one can easily understand Robert Blake’s statement, “all history is in one sense contemporary history” within this context. Analysing the English Church in the sixteenth century, it would be exceedingly difficult to conclude differently from the majority of scholars and argue that there was relatively little change. On a structural level, the break with Rome that occurred in the 1530's vastly altered the religious landscape.

The question of where reform originated and how it ultimately succeeded is of great debate among scholars. For Elton, Henry was not himself immediately responsible, but merely asked his ministers for a solution to the political troubles involving his first marriage. Certainly Henry had some agency of his own in finding a solution: he had initially pushed for a solution through Levitical law, and then in the early 1530's had decided upon a course of action involving his supremacy within the realm. Elton argues that the King could find no means to act upon his claims, however, as “if Henry was clearly so sure of his autonomous rights, and so clearly moving from this early date [1530] towards the total breach, his prolonged wait and the ups and downs of his endless stream of instructions become inexplicable”. Henry had not found a way in which he could legally enforce his autonomy. Elton argues that it was his chief minister Thomas Cromwell who found such legal means to secure the Royal Supremacy. Indeed, as one progresses through the text, Elton’s emphasis becomes quite clear. It was through the genius and exertions of Cromwell that the English Church was forever altered. That the radicals, led in Convocation by Cromwell, were not successful in 1531 as they were five years later in Parliament is explained as to their “not being in control of the King’s mind and policy”. The obvious subtext behind such terms is that Elton downplays Henry’s own agency in favour of his strong minister. Henry merely wished to secure legal grounds upon which he could divorce; it was Cromwell’s desire to bring the English dioceses under the rule of the monarchy, or in other words to nationalize the Church. Elton argues that Cromwell’s zeal for reform originated in his veneration of the Bible as the source of supreme authority for religious practise. He was the truest of Protestants who wished to “reform the earthly existence of men” and to “remake and renew the body politic of England”. There is clearly no question in Elton’s mind that Cromwell was the impetus and motivational agent for the Henrician Reformation.

Such a belief is far from universal however. While he does recognize Cromwell’s administrative genius, Tjernagel in his 1965 study – stressing the connection between the English reformers and the Lutherans, from which much of their religious ideology originated – emphasizes Henry’s wisdom in using Parliament to ensure the success of the Royal Supremacy. The legal machinations were indeed Cromwell’s, but the execution of the entire design must be attributed to Henry’s genius as “King in Parliament”. Henry did not perform this task without moral regard, and consequently the delays and hesitation of the early 1530's can be attributed to his religious convictions: “the proposals for the final breach with Rome and the dissolution of the monasteries must have been repugnant. But little by little Henry saw the inevitability and utility of both”. Cross, writing ten years later, agrees stating that “the Henrician Reformation must still be seen as a naked act of State, the imposition of the will of one man, the Monarch, upon an entire nation”. The Supremacy did indeed begin with Henry and his advisors, although they were aided by a Commons sympathetic with the reform, as it sought to improve its position against the privileged clergy. C. S. L. Davies counters that there is a possibility that some of the measures passed by Commons, namely the Supplication against the Ordinaries, could have had Cromwell’s influence in their engineering. Tjernagel is alone however in stating that the Reformation as precipitated by the King’s will reflected the “will of the people ....[to] nationalize the church in England .... Virtually the whole nation identified itself in that action”. Other scholars are not so easily convinced of the ‘public’ unity of Henry’s actions however, especially Pallister who advances that many acquiesced because they feared the Crown’s wrath.

Elton’s view of the actual changes that took place in the Church are best reflected by his statement to the effect that the Church lost its status as “spiritual estate” of England to being a specialized profession ministering to the spiritual needs of the country. He argues that such occurred in part due to Cromwell’s poor opinion of canon law; instead of reforming it he endeavoured to limit its powers. The means by which the Church enforced such law did not change after the Reformation however, as largely through Henry’s own interests the ecclesiastical courts remained to a great extent unaltered. In most regards the Church retained the appearance of the pre-reform generation, with one crucial difference brought about by lay pressure, again greatly due to Cromwell’s influence. For the Reformation to succeed the monasteries had to be dissolved, as “the secularization of their possessions was the least that lay demand – royal and private – would rest satisfied with, but also because the government stood under the guidance of men who disapproved of them in principle”. The Dissolution can be seen to have devastated the lives of many men and women in the Church, mostly friars, nuns, and monks from poorer houses, and there were a few protests. Stronger resistence, however, was saved for Parliament’s issuance of the Ten Articles and the Injunction, both works of Cromwell from 1536. Elton argues that the Pilgrimage of Grace was precipitated in part because of the defence of traditional religion which were attacked by acts such as those stated above. Cross is in agreement, stating that the Pilgrimage demonstrated to both Henry and Cromwell that there were political consequences for accelerated religious change; Cromwell was thereafter more vigilant in his policing of the realm. Pallister doubts the significance of religious ideological conflict, and instead stresses the regional nature of the uprisings. Elton finds other scholars agreeing with him in his belief that Cromwell himself, along with other radicals such as Latimer and Cranmer, wanted the Ten Articles to be much more Lutheran than was ultimately accepted, yet compromise was required. Certainly such seems to be Elton’s premise for the whole of the Reformation: it was guided by radicals, yet to be accomplished legally it had to proceed more slowly and with concessions to the more conservative members of Parliament, and indeed to the more conservative side of Henry himself.

Elton does not detail much of the pre-Reformation Church. Heal’s study examines the extent to which the clergy were mired in an economic crisis which in part precipitated the Reformation. Many clerics could not support their ecclesiastical responsibilities with their relatively meagre incomes, and those who were appointed to several benefices were lambasted by reformers for their absenteeism. Her wholly economic approach to the subject prompts the conclusion that inflation was responsible for many of the clergy’s problems. As to the Reformation itself, there was no real change in clerical financing to aid poorer benefices; quite in opposition, smaller parish clergy were hurt the most by reform as it was they who had to pay a greater proportion of the tax demanded by the Crown. Davies argues that these disparities produced wildly differing situations in terms of the ‘spiritual authenticity’ of each parish. Some lived up to Protestant expectations, while in others there was a great amount of corruption and a decline in religious standards; some clergymen could not even recite the Lord’s prayer. Consequently there was much dissatisfaction and anti-clericalism already present in England even before Henry’s reign. The Dissolution of the Monasteries is another matter. Elton’s argument that the commissioners responsible for reporting to Cromwell were somewhat justified in their derisive accounts on the state of the monasteries has opponents however. He states that such men had the “intellectual capacity and administrative competence” to carry out their task. More importantly, their derogatory reports were expected to be so by Cromwell, as he needed such ammunition to dissolve the lower orders. Tjernagel contends that the vices of the monks and clergy were likely to have been exaggerated, and furthermore that Cromwell and his agents enriched their own finances through the dissolution, thus placing imparting their motives with somewhat of a darker aspect. Agreeing with Elton, he adds that there was relatively little resistence from the clergy as “the secular clergy had little love for the religious”, and furthermore that there was little outcry when Wolsey had dissolved monasteries on papal authority. Cross agrees, but with a slightly different interpretation: some clergy were indeed disappointed that the funds which emerged from the dissolution of the smaller monasteries were not used to aid new spiritual or social purposes, but were instead assumed by the Crown for other purposes, namely
the expansion of the King’s coffers. She also provides a telling example of a Protestant reformer who had supported the royal supremacy but turned against the suppression of the monasteries, believing that the Church should be just free from State oppression as the schism had liberated it form “a corrupt papacy”. One does get a sense in Elton’s study that he personally regrets the dissolution in terms of the loss of great English architectural works and historical monuments. Such ‘mourning’ is present in Pallister’s text as well, as he provides contemporary evidence that much of the populace was against Henry’s actions, although they would not dare vocalize their beliefs.

For the most part the scholars selected here do agree with Elton in his findings. Certainly there is some argument in the particulars of the English Church in the early sixteenth century, yet there is consensus among most of the scholars concerning the reaction to the royal supremacy. A more prominent ideological divide is present when looking at the source of the Reformation however. Elton’s view that it was through the machinations of Cromwell that England nationalized its Church has to some measure polarized scholars, although the belief in the importance of Henry’s minister is nearly universal. Comparing a few works by these scholars allows one to begin observing the different ideological constructs used by academics of diverse religious beliefs and time periods.

Bibliography


Cross, Claire. Church and People 1450-1660: The Triumph of the Laity in the English Church.
Trowbridge, Great Britain: The Harvester Press Limited, 1976.

Davies, C. S. L. Peace, Print & Protestantism. London: Fontana Press, 1995.

Elton, G. R. Reform and Reformation: England, 1509-1558. Cambridge, USA: Harvard
University Press, 1977.

Heal, Felicity. “Economic Problems of the Clergy”, Church and Society in England: Henry VIII
to James I. Ed. Felicity Heal and Rosemary O’Day. Hamden, USA: Archon Books, 1977.

Pallister, D. M. “Popular Reactions to the Reformation during the Years of Uncertainty
1530-70", Church and Society in England: Henry VIII to James I. Ed. Felicity Heal and Rosemary O’Day. Hamden, USA: Archon Books, 1977.

Tjernagel, Neelak Serawlook. Henry VIII and the Lutherans: A Study in Anglo-Lutheran
Relations from 1521 to 1547. St. Louis, USA: Concordia Publishing, 1965.

I Dreamt a Little Dream of Der Sandmann*

*(Or, How Nathaniel Got a Piece of Sand Lodged in His Eyes and he could only get it out by jumping)

One of the most interesting paradoxes in literature is that between reality and fantasy, as the very nature of the medium continually challenges the author to demonstrate the validity and credibility of his narrative. Many of E.T.A. Hoffmann’s short works stress the malleability of the boundary between the two, and consequently readers are encouraged to create a cohesive structure – frequently one which originates from only a subtext or marginalia within the narrative itself – upon which to analyse the text. Der Sandmann further entertains the frequently roguish nature of reality in literature, in part by its very title and the implications of a dreamer upon his own story, as well as by Hoffmann’s often muted use of humour to satirize the act of reading itself, or more precisely of a reader’s interpretation of his narrative. Most of the issues that Hoffmann addresses in the story are channelled through the main character Nathaniel, while the more self-referential critique of the creative process occurs by directly conversing with the reader. Even more substantially however, Hoffmann is seeking to examine the relations between individuals that are superficially normal, yet contain much that remains hidden to external observers; there is much to be revealed about the true nature of Nathaniel’s familial relations. Madness is of course the extreme condition that the author finds in Nathaniel’s character, and yet others seems equally disturbed if not in quite so conspicuous a manner. In this fashion he is studying the very nature of literature as a voyeuristic medium, and indeed as an intrusive process. Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of Der Sandmann is that the reader never has the narrative completely within his or her grasp; one is not positive whether the events that occur are objective reality or remain subject to Nathaniel’s madness.

The very title of the text suggests that Hoffmann wishes the reader to question the credibility of the narrative, or at least of the narrator. Initially, Nathaniel himself relates the story, and throughout the remainder of the text the reader retains several artifacts from his viewpoint. Most glaring is obviously Nathaniel’s physical description of the advocate Coppelius. His vilifying portrait of whom he calls the Sandman – his “ochre-yellow face”, “large, heavy nose”, and “crooked mouth” which let out a “strange hissing sound” (89) – remains imprinted on the reader, and upon Coppelius’s later appearances one shares Nathaniel’s profound sense of dread. Such is true despite the fact that few of the other characters react in a similar manner to the old man. Although Nathaniel’s mother and sisters seem much more troubled by the fact that Coppelius will be removing the father from the family for scientific experimentation than by Coppelius himself, for the remainder of the text one sides with Nathaniel in believing the advocate to be a malignant figure. A closer scrutiny of the text seems to counter such a view, however. Nathaniel’s first letter to Clara, ostensibly written for Lothario, does not seem to be a mere correspondence, but a carefully fabricated narrative designed to convince Clara of the reality of the Sandman. Events are chronologically reorganized for maximum effect: one hears of the Sandman long before Nathaniel introduces Coppelius, despite the latter’s prolonged acquaintance with his family. Upon encountering the advocate for the first time it is relatively easy for the reader to agree with the narrator and acknowledge Coppelius as the feared Sandman, yet Nathaniel only later provides evidence of Coppelius’s evil nature, mentioning how he and his siblings dreaded visits from the old man. Further insights are allowed by the sequence in which Nathaniel describes an incident with Coppelius in which the latter “seized [him] so violently that [his] joints cracked, unscrewed [his] hands and feet, and fixed them on again now in this way, now in that” (91-2). In fact, for a great deal of his narrative it seems quite clear that he remains in a state of dreaming while awake. At the very least, Nathaniel has begun to confuse his dreams with reality, and yet of this fact he remains unaware; in such stressful situations he loses consciousness and falls into a sickness. Upon rising from sleep, however, Nathaniel does not attribute his strange experiences to a dream, but instead asks “Is the sandman still here?” (92). Objective reality for him has now become an existence in which such fantastical events as occur when the sandman is present are not questioned.

Logic of this sort is certainly the realm of the deranged, and indeed by the end of the text there is no question of Nathaniel’s lunacy. Furthermore, the text hints at possible reasons for his madness which do form a plausible and psychologically motivated explication of Hoffmann’s narrative. Nathaniel’s relations with the members of his family are problematic at best. He admits that he and his sisters “saw little of our father all day. Perhaps he was very busy” (86), although to most readers acquainted with working parents such does not seem to stray far from normality until Nathaniel’s dependency upon his father is questioned. The time spent with their father seems far from wholesome, as they are placed in strange positions of subjugation and isolation. Nathaniel doesn’t explicitly state his own feelings towards his father, although in one instance he lowers his defences and allows that “an invincible timidity” (88) prevented him from speaking with his father. While he is here referring to inquiries about the Sandman, of greater consequence is that Nathaniel would feel that he must conceal such issues from his father. There are a few cues to suggest that Nathaniel is not alone in his mental instability, however. The problems within the family are perhaps best presented by Nathaniel’s mother, who remains to a great extent a marginal figure throughout the text. Indeed, it is her silence which is most telling. In two places Nathaniel describes her as “gloomy” in relation to her husband, first during the instances when he silently smoked while the children were reading, and later when Nathaniel hides himself in his father’s room. In each case his mother is gloomy just prior to a visit from the Sandman, and indeed she would alert the children of his impending arrival. Possibly the two are linked in a manner akin to Jekyll and Hyde, the sandman being the father’s more violent temperament; certainly such a concept of dual personality is not foreign to Hoffmann. In this regard, Nathaniel’s apparently innocuous question to his mother, “who is this sandman who always drives us away from Papa? What does he look like?” (86), becomes a much more loaded inquiry. It would not be improbable for Nathaniel to sublimate his knowledge of his father’s abusive nature into the myth of the Sandman, despite Hoffmann’s insistence not to allow such to advance far beyond mere supposition. The author does allow some room for controversy, however, as one could argue that it was Coppelius himself who was the agent of abuse upon the children: “He used always to call us the little beasts; when he was present we were not allowed to make a sound, and we cursed the malign and repellant man who deliberately sought to ruin for us even the most minute pleasure” (90). On this point Hoffmann himself is largely ambiguous although the narrators of the text – both Nathaniel and the later unnamed narrator of the ‘prose’ section – each condemn Coppelius, although the latter is for obvious reasons much more subdued than Nathaniel. A more easily defended position can be argued, suggesting that Nathaniel lost control of his mind at a later date than childhood and then reinvented his past, projecting his insecurities and psychological defences back into his memories and confusing them with the myth of the Sandman: “the sandman was now no longer that boogeyman of the nursery tale ... no! he was now a repellent spectral monster” (90), meaning of course Coppelius. Several other aspects of his recollection other than Coppelius himself have been changed to become incorporated into this fantasy, including “what I had for so long taken to be a wall-cupboard was, rather, a black cavern, in which there stood a small hearth” (91). It is not impossible to reason that the cupboard is now, and has forever remained, a simple cupboard. Similarly exaggerated is Nathaniel’s description of the family’s reaction prior to Coppelius’s final visit. They seem to know that the father is going to be killed during this visit and are consequently very apprehensive: “Tears started from my mother’s eyes. ‘But father, father!’ she cried. ‘Must it be so?’” (93). Viewed in its entirety Nathaniel’s letter does appear to be a colourful re-interpretation of his past.

Hoffmann does allow a brief glimpse past the ambiguity of the narrative during the dream sequence with the hearth when Nathaniel states that his father looked like Coppelius. Much can be construed from this brief phrase, and indeed it could be used to support the notion forwarded above that they are in reality the same individual. Alternately, Nathaniel could be comparing the two figures in an attempt to rationalize his father’s death. Surely such a traumatic event would have had a drastic impact on the young Nathaniel, and blame could be easily transferred to an individual such as Coppelius, who would in effect be guilty of robbing the father of his identity. There is of course no evidence in the text that the advocate was truly affiliated with the explosion which killed his father, and indeed that Nathaniel implicates the ‘sandman’ without any valid foundation is made explicit: alone in his room he hears the explosion and cries out “This is Coppelius!” (93). Furthermore, a threat of vengeance is made which, discounting the accountability of Coppelius in his father’s death, seems to foreshadow Nathaniel’s suicide at the end of the text: “I have resolved to get the better of him and, whatever the outcome may be, revenge my father’s death” (94). Latent throughout the text is an element of Nathaniel’s guilt over his father’s death. To him perhaps it stems from his inaction to expose Coppelius for the villain Nathaniel believed him to be. It is possible to extrapolate somewhat of a more consistent answer from several details which appear to be secondary in Hoffmann’s text. Throughout Nathaniel’s dealings with both Coppelius and the optician Coppola, references to eyes are made – “lov-ely occe, lov-ely occe” each of them says. More important is the dream sequence already mentioned above:

‘Eyes, bring eyes!’ Coppelius cried in a dull hollow voice.
‘Little beast! Little beast!’ he bleated, showing his teeth. Then he pulled me up
and threw me on to the hearth, so that the flames began to singe my hair.
‘Now we have eyes – eyes – a lovely pair of children’s eyes!’ .... my father raised
his hands imploringly and cried: ‘Master! Master! Let my Nathaniel keep his
eyes – let him keep them!’
.... ‘The boy can have his eyes then, and keep use of them’
(91)

Arguably, Nathaniel has seen something traumatic in his childhood which he has since repressed and sublimated into the Sandman fantasy, and which becomes manifest in terms of his fascination and repulsion of eyes. While his attempts at creative works are ultimately rejected by the other characters, the writing process does have a pacifying effect on Nathaniel, although even here he can not escape his fetish with sight, and eyes in particular. His composition is quite revealing:

[Nathaniel] heard Clara’s voice: ‘Do you not see me? Coppelius has deceived
you: those were not my eyes which burned into your breast; they were glowing-
hot drops of your own heart’s blood – I still have my eyes; you have only to
look at me!’ .... Nathaniel looked into Clara’s eyes, but it was death which
gazed at him mildly out of them.
(105)

It is quite possible to interpret this fixation originating from seeing his father’s body after the explosion. A body subject to such a violent death is a very gruesome sight, especially for a relative, and certainly some form of psychological defence would emerge.

Nathaniel’s affair with the automaton Olympia triggers his final descent into madness leading to his suicide. He had thought her a perfect companion, and one whom he could project his values upon. She does not question his artistic experiments but remained seated, listening intently. His own emotional detachment is made explicit through Olympia; she lacks a true voice, merely repeating ‘Ah, ah’, and yet Nathaniel feels that “what Olympia said of his work, of his poetic talent in general, came from the depths of his own being, that her voice was the voice of those very depths themselves” (118). With her he feels that he can communicate anything he desires, and indeed one could argue that he has found in Olympia an agency lacking from his own childhood: that of his own voice. Much like his repulsion/attraction to the eye signifier, his relationship with Olympia carries within it the seeds of his continued madness. Despite his desire for a largely emotionless relationship, certainly professor Spalanzani’s daughter was bound to be exposed as an automaton at some point. To Nathaniel this knowledge is a terrifying surprise uncovered when the professor and Coppola are fighting over the robot:

Nathaniel stood numb with horror. He had seen all too clearly that Olympia’s
deathly-white face possessed no eyes: where the eyes should have been, there
were only pits of blackness – she was a lifeless doll!
.... At this point Nathaniel saw that a pair of blood-flecked eyes were lying
on the floor and staring up at him; Spalanzani seized them with his uninjured
hand and threw them at him, so that they struck him in the chest.
(119-20)

The correlation between this incident and Nathaniel’s dreams from childhood, as well as his later creative endeavours, is far too great to be mere coincidence. Hoffmann seems to be emphasizing the fact that single traumatic events can trigger madness, as occurs to Nathaniel after being struck with Olympia’s eyes. He repeats this performance atop a tower at the end of the text, whence he throws himself to his death. It is therefore likely that this single incident triggered memories from childhood with which he could not cope. One may forward the supposition that in the experiments carried out by Coppelius and Nathaniel’s father, they were attempting to create an automaton of their own, yet either failed or the former took the creation himself much as he had done with Spalanzani. Perhaps Nathaniel had seen several of these stunted creations – maybe some unattached limbs, heads without eyes, or a torso – and could not separate them from dead humans. Suppositions such as these must remain so.

Hoffmann does not allow the reader to interpret his text in so simple a fashion, however; indeed, he seems to revel in the ambiguity of his text. Throughout the story Hoffmann seems to remain a step ahead of the reader’s own interpretation, and it is largely through a variety of narrative voices that this is successful. The first instance in which such can be observed is Clara’s response to Nathaniel’s letter. Her reaction to his story is a rational one – that everything he had experienced occurred solely in his mind, and that he must forget such childish delusions – and is likely to be similar to the reader’s initial interpretation as well. She does in fact hint at the line of reasoning which I have here followed, by implicating Nathaniel’s father in his son’s mental instability: “your father, altogether absorbed in the deceptive desire for higher truth, would have become estranged from his family” (96). Furthermore, she disavows the existence of Coppelius as a harmful entity, most notably concerning his father’s death, “Your father surely brought about his own death through his own carelessness, and Coppelius is not to blame”. Certainly it would be easy to conclude as she does, yet several aspects of the text counter such an easy answer to Nathaniel’s madness. Almost in passing, near the end of the text, Hoffmann presents several characters who comment on the automaton sequence, some trying to understand it in the ‘realistic’ terms of Olympia’s yawns as “the sound of the clockwork winding itself up”, while another forwards that the entire episode was “an allegory, an extended metaphor” (121). One almost gets the sense that Hoffmann is ridiculing the readers themselves in this passage, as if he could presuppose every possible interpretation of his text and counter it. Such seemingly minor passages initially succeed in keeping the reader from following a single interpretation. Most significant to Hoffmann’s apparent desire to detain his text in ambiguity, the narrator who appears after Nathaniel’s second letter seems to himself believe in the malicious nature of Coppelius-Coppola, if not in the sandman itself. This usurpation of the narrative shields the reader from any of Nathaniel’s further writings, which would have revealed his lunacy far too effortlessly. This second narrator continues the villainous description of Coppola that Nathaniel had first implanted in the reader, using such epithets as “the repulsive ... Coppola” (103) and “the sandman Coppelius” (109). The scene in which Coppola fills a table with many eyeglasses is itself much like a dream; it seems improbable that the optician could contain so many pairs of glasses and telescopes upon his person, and yet the narrator relays such information as if it were fact. One begins to question whether such fantastical occurrences were truly fantasy and not part of objective reality of which the narrator is ostensibly a part. Furthermore, Hoffmann-as-author increasingly intrudes into the narration as the text nears its conclusion. At the end of the text the narrator has knowledge of Coppelius emerging among the crowd gathered around the tower, taciturnly goading Nathaniel to jump, and then disappearing. He then concludes with a short description of Clara’s new life. Such information would have been impossible for the ‘narrator-friend’ to have obtained, and consequently one must conclude that it is Hoffmann himself who is here speaking.

Reflecting on the prior narration at this point reveals that Hoffmann has been playing with the slippery signification which is suggested by the story’s title. For him this slippery signification becomes physical, much as the sandman himself is a doppelganger, changing form between the advocate Coppelius and the optician Coppola. Dream becomes reality, and one cannot determine whether Coppola’s eyeglasses are merely that, or instead “a thousand eyes [which] gazed and blinked and stared up at Nathaniel, ...[whose] flaming glances leaped more and more wildly together and directed their blood-red beams into Nathaniel’s breast” (109-10); certainly the latter is more real for Nathaniel himself. One also gains the awareness that it is relatively simple to construct a narrative upon which to base one’s life, as Hoffmann seems to suggest – by means of ambiguous episodes such as that involving Olympia – that reality is sufficiently strange and fantastic that madmen can create an insane logic out of the chaos of normal life. It is this ambiguous boundary between fact and fiction which makes Hoffmann’s tale of madness – which is ultimately what the narrative is – much more than a simple tragedy of a young student’s downfall.

Bibliography


Hoffmann, E.T.A. The Sandman. Tales of Hoffmann. Trans. R. J. Hollingdale. Toronto:
Penguin Books, 1982.

The Sounds of Silence: The Voice of the Other in Coetzee's Foe

When looking at civilization, or indeed any notion of humanity whether collective or individual, one naturally presupposes language to be fundamental to its structure and development. Such assumptions are not without validity, as communication does principally create civilization on its many levels. Arguably, culture is itself the superstructure above this act of communication within a society. Within this context it is possible to observe how culture and language are determined by the social structures within a society; those that are in positions of power regulate both the medium and the content of culture. Throughout Foe, J. M. Coetzee consistently demonstrates the implications of power structures on language and the ability to communicate. The protagonist herself struggles to convey her story despite cultural limitations, as she begins to understand that though she cannot tell her own story, using another author removes her voice. Foe consequently uses his cultural dominance to dictate the constituency of a proper story, yet throughout the text Susan pursues her own narrative, and indeed the nature of her own position within that story. Most prominent however is the portrayal of the mute slave Friday, whose subservience is so thorough that he can barely understand or respond to others. Susan herself attempts to engage in a dialogue with him, but he remains mute to her. One cannot disavow Friday an element of his own agency however, as Susan’s pursuit of his story despite his silence largely precipitates the story that Coetzee presents to the reader. Indeed, taken as a whole the premise of Foe is that of the agency of the subservient. It is when the repressed become aware of their mutual relationship with authoritative voices and subsequently engage with them that a measure of independence and freedom is gained.

The first section of Foe is a direct narrative of Susan’s life on Crusoe’s island told from her own perspective. As such it must of course be analysed in light of the narrator’s biases – in particular, that Susan does not have access to the ‘truth’ behind the events of their stay on the island as either Crusoe or Friday perceive it – yet that is precisely one of the main themes of the novel as a whole. Upon her return to England, she attempts to bring her experiences into a cohesive narrative to be shared with the reading public and endeavour to remain as ‘factual’ as possible. It is important for the narrative to be her own, and she commences in a similar manner as other tales of maritime adventure. The beginnings of both the first section and her story-within-a-story description of events to Crusoe are routine for such narratives: “At last I could row no further” (p. 5); and then speaking, like Ishmael, to Crusoe, “My name is Susan Barton ... I was cast adrift by the crew of the ship yonder” (p. 9). Each instance stresses the importance of Susan as an individual within the narrative, and there is no doubt that this is her story. Yet such conventions originate in masculine adventure narratives, and Susan quickly learns that she cannot incorporate all the elements that she wants into this framework. Her desire to include accounts from both Crusoe and Friday to complete her narrative is frustrated when she discovers that she cannot do so. There is no possibility of Friday revealing his story to her, neither can the recently dead Crusoe, for “who but Crusoe, who is no more, could truly tell you Crusoe’s story?” (p. 51). While she does attempt to engage Friday in order to reveal his story, which will be further discussed below, it becomes apparent that regardless of its validity, his story – or indeed that of any of the characters from the island – is largely irrelevant for readers. Such becomes manifest during her supposed collaboration with Foe, who subsumes Susan’s account into his own narrative. She felt that she could not write the text herself, for she cannot truly find her own voice within the silence of both Friday and Crusoe. She does not feel that it is her right to speak for them, although others, namely Foe himself, do not hesitate to speak for her.

Susan believes that she requires Foe for precisely the reason that she struggles to find her own voice. As a man involved with and indeed an articulate exponent of British culture, Foe represents the dominant culture from which Susan as a woman was largely excluded. Susan doubts her ability to produce a cohesive narrative within the confines of the patriarchal culture. Literary society – which in the eighteenth century largely restrained women as marginal figures – required a focus for texts, a point to be reached, and one which Susan could not provide: “my stories always have more applications than I intend, so that I must go back and laboriously extract the right application and apologize for the wrong ones and efface them. Some people are born story tellers; I, it would seem, am not” (p. 81). Susan is here fighting with the knowledge that history does not emerge from a single narrative, instead it is much more subjective. The very existence of the text of Foe proves the disparity that Susan feels between what she should say according to social convention and what she believes needs to be said. It is this struggle which provides thematic and narrative continuity to Coetzee’s text and proves, to modern readers at least, that Susan would indeed have been an able storyteller. She believes that storytelling is a live medium better suited to oral transmission since “a liveliness is lost in the writing down which must be supplied by art” (p. 40), and therefore any story will contain more of the soul of the author than elements of truth. Stories are living entities informed by the teller, they are products of a creative process akin to eroticism, and therefore requires the participation of the author within the narrative. Susan continually refers to physical love as the basis for narratives, saying that the “tongue is like the heart” (p. 85) and that “without desire how is it possible to make a story?” (p. 88). Certainly there was some level of desire on the island, foremost was obviously Susan’s desire to escape back to England, but also her sexual feelings shared with Crusoe were important. Regardless, such themes would be ill-suited to the phallocentric British society, which would inscribe its own voice on her narrative for “he has the last word who disposes over the greatest force” (p. 124), which of course if not necessarily Susan herself.

Perhaps most important to finding her own voice is Susan’s desire to engage others in a dialogue to conjoin her own narrative. It is in this sense that a sense of ‘truth’ would emerge from a multiplicity of voices. Yet such simultaneous narration is deemed too divided by contemporary literary culture, as personified by Foe in the text. Susan wants the truth of the events that occurred on the island to liberate her, in a fashion, from the dominance of others. Her story would demonstrate that a woman is just as independent a creature as a man. Thematically and practically the island was her freedom, as it was there that she was agent to her own emancipation. Yet upon her return to England she finds that she cannot convey her story as she lacks both the publishing credentials of someone like Foe and the ability to write as a woman within British culture of the time. It is because of her internalization of the cultural norms which exclude her that she feels that she must apologize for her “wrong applications”. She therefore denies the validity of her own voice and instead believes herself to be as a Muse to Foe while he writes her story. However, she quickly learns that she will not achieve freedom by his pen. Foe’s writing is not any real account of her life on the island but instead a more elaborate account which she ultimately rejects: “You know how dull our life was, in truth. We faced no perils, no ravenous beasts, not even serpents. Food was plentiful, the sun was mild. No pirates landed on our shores, no freebooters, no cannibals” (p. 81). Susan does not gain the liberation of free communication through Foe, quite contrarily his writing literally imprisons Susan and Friday within his house. Foe wants Susan to be secondary to his narrative, and indeed his writing leads to the creation of a second Susan, a character who believes she in fact is Susan Barton. He begins to contradict her, and attempts to convince her to accept this second Susan and presuppose a narrative which she is trying to reject:

Foe smiled. ‘Tell me more of Bahia,’ he said.
‘There is much to be said of Bahia. Bahia is a world in itself. But why? Bahia
is not the island. Bahia was but a stepping stone on my way.’
‘That may not be so,’ replied Foe cautiously. ‘Rehearse your story and you will see.”
(p. 116)

Foe then proceeds to create his own narrative, effectively removing Susan from her own story; to him a sequential narrative is more important. Only one hero is required for Foe, and other narratives – namely those of Friday, Crusoe, and in effect Susan herself – would only be distracting and more importantly it would be outside of the literary tradition. Despite being aided by numerous assistants, Odysseus, Jason of the Argonauts, Aeneas, and Crusoe in Defoe’s original text – all effectively stood alone during their travels. Foe in fact creates her story as if it were his own, as though he had himself been a castaway, and more importantly it becomes a story which adheres perfectly with the patriarchal society in which they live, with “five parts in all ... it is thus that we make up a book” (p. 117).

Susan does not allow Foe to be sole narrator of the text, however. Initially she counters Foe’s authoring of a palatable story for the English masses by rejecting his attempts to subserve her life to that narrative as well as the inscriptions that he places upon her:

if I were a mere receptacle ready to accommodate whatever story is
stuffed in me, surely you would dismiss me, surely you would say to your-
self, “This is no woman but a house of words, hollow, without substance”?
‘I am not a story, Mr. Foe.
(pp. 130-1)

Despite what Foe is trying to do to her, Susan firmly believes that she is greater than the story, and indeed, there is more to the character than is presented by Coetzee; her life does not begin with the first paragraph of part I. She learns from her isolation with Friday in Foe’s house that she must more actively involve herself in the story’s creation. To this end she attempts to engage both Friday and Foe himself into the narrative. Susan intends to become a subject for Foe in both senses of the word. His repressive acts do remove her identity to a great extent, yet not to the extreme of her entirely doubting herself or her voice. She never displays any uncertainty concerning the second Susan but remains adamant that she herself is the real Susan, despite Foe’s intentions. Simultaneously however, in many instances she does demonstrate her own agency: when she has a sexual encounter with Foe; the letters of Part II, originally meant for Foe but much more of her own narrative voice to be read by others.

More informative are the initiatives taken with Friday in order to allow his story to emerge. It is from these instances that a voice emerges for Susan. At the same time however, these passages demonstrate the extent to which Friday has himself become a subject to both the colonial power and the narrative itself. He had of course once been a slave, and to the British he will always remain so. Susan’s efforts to ‘free’ him from servitude do not in fact liberate him from colonial rule; indeed, that she inscribes her own values and an identity upon him is made quite evident when she fashions for him a ‘freedom sack’, containing his manumission papers, to be worn around his neck. Many times she mimics Foe in inscribing her own words upon Friday in place of his own voice: “I say he is a cannibal, he becomes a cannibal; I say he is a laundryman and he becomes a laundryman ... what he is to the world is what I make of him” (pp. 121-2). More telling are her attempts to probe Friday for his story, despite his inability to communicate in any but the most basic manner. It is this probing that allows Coetzee’s narrative a continuity and indeed remains the locus for the text. Susan senses something in Friday that she cannot truly fathom until the final part of the text. Throughout her interaction with Friday, there is an agency in his silence and indeed in his slavery on the island of which she becomes aware:

Why, during all those years alone with Crusoe, did you submit to his rule,
when you might easily have slain him, or blinded him and made him into
your slave in turn? Is there something in the condition of slavehood that
invades the heart and makes a slave a slave for life”
(p. 85)

Friday has to a certain degree internalized his own servitude, yet more importantly, he exists within a different medium than either Susan, Crusoe, or Foe, and one in which Susan herself longs to live. Friday is not confined to the slippery signification of identity with which all of the other characters remain burdened, continually exchanging positions of master-slave, self-other, and Subject-subject. Instead he remains outside of such a system; his existence is more pure and untainted by the identity construction which would others inscribe upon him. To a great extent it is his lack of language which allows Friday to be free of such encumbrances of society. The final part of the text suggests that Susan herself has begun to understand the nature of his existence: “This is a place where bodies are their own signs. It is the home of Friday” (p. 137). It is within this context that one can more fully understand the association continually made between writing and sexual desire. By doing so, Susan is endeavouring to unite Friday’s pure world of ‘body-as-sign’ with the literary world of slippery signification, and consequently find a means of communication. Arguably, Susan cannot remove the social constructs which bind her from such a place, however much she longs to join Friday. She is far too much like Foe, and her dependency on language is far too great.

Many texts have examined the impact of social structure on language and communication, and a number of theoretical works have been advanced sharing similar views. The relationships between the dominant and subservient classes are not simple ‘give-and-take’, but instead form a complex of interdependency; each internalizes the supposed roles of the other. Within this context, Susan – a character repressed in many way by her society – must find a voice with which she can create her story. It is her struggle to find this voice, undertaken largely through the voices of others, that forms the locus of Coetzee’s narrative. The final section of the text seems to suggest that she has succeeded in finding such a voice by understanding Friday’s silence, and there is little evidence to doubt her newly discovered communicative freedom.

Bibliography

Coetzee, J.M. Foe. London: Penguin Books, 1986.

After the Rain (for Robin)

There is a scientist within me that wants to categorize my father. Make of him a quantity or dichotomy, enumerate him:

1. as Scientist
2. as Photography / Storyteller
3. as British
4. as Authority
5. as Bryan William to us and Robin to his true friends
6. as Provider
7. Dad

I usually get bored with long lists.

~

What is a beginning? It cannot be created, at least not by the potential creator. Like a life is a beginning: it must be given to you. Things are more easily be ended, though. I was not given a beginning, so I begin with the end.

I do not think that I will be able to cope with my father’s death. I have not coped well with the deaths of others.

When my dog died, I watched television for thirteen straight hours.
When my friend Brie died, at first I laughed and watched a plane fly overhead; I haven’t stopped crying since.
When my Nannie died, I broke down in the cafeteria at school (there’s no jury like your peers).

Every day I prepare myself for my father’s death. But I do think there will be a day when I stop crying.

~

A certain peace comes after a rainfall, a rising with the mist.

~

There was a time in my father’s life when a painful degree of hopelessness followed desperation. I can very clearly remember how he used to come home after work, summarily acknowledge the rest of us, and then go right up to bed. I spent very little time with my father at this point in our lives.

His boss at work had decided to make his own personal life a public affair, and consequently created himself tyrannus ab administratione over my father. In this structure, my father could hardly operate. His job required a continual adaptation of technique in order to get the results he desired. Histology was his muse, it was his passion and means of melodic expression against the dissonant chordal structures handed to him by his teachers of decades past. You could sometimes see it in his eyes: a flurry of melody following the thump! smack! of wood on skin. Those damned teachers of the old British school. Nobody escaped that system without a caning. Sure, scars are formed – ugly details which can be seen upon closer observation – but the very act of covering those marks can be characterising and religious in nature. Old people do not lie when they say that such hardships build character.

It was at this point that I discovered and more truly understood my father’s patterns.

~

Comfort can be found in routine, but so too can loneliness. You begin to wonder about other lives; you begin to fantasize about other people. Imagination can be freed, but so can destructive energies.

An iron trap can be seen to cover the face, perhaps even the entire body. This maiden is first a protection against the loneliness of routine, held in place to deflect the sharp blows that are perpetually falling. To one outside the maiden, it is an obvious entrapment: you can watch the slow drain of blood by the inward-pointing spikes. They aren’t as big or obvious as depicted in medieval textbooks. These points are dangerous for their imperceptibility.

It took my father three years to escape from his loneliness.

~

I remember reading in one of my old comic books about an archaeologist who had discovered an ancient mask in a dusty tomb. It was a very beautiful mask, entrancing both for the intricacy of its construction and the elemental simplicity of its decoration. It became of such value to him that he had to hide it from the police in that country so that he could keep it for himself.

When he brought the mask home to his wife, she screamed and would not let it into the house. His love for this mask forced him to leave her and lock himself in his office at the university so he could be alone to study the mask. He spent years alone with the mask, never letting anybody in.

Then one day he left his office, walked out into the hall, and collapsed in a corner. He began to laugh. He laughed so hard that all of the other archaeologists and professors came out into the hall to find out what was happening. They found the archaeologist in the corner, laughing, the mask beside him at his feet. He would not talk; he just stared at them and laughed. They wanted to learn why he did this, so they began to study the mask.

When I was a kid my father never liked me reading comic books. He thought it was a waste of time and money. At the age of thirteen, I sold one of my comic books for nearly six-hundred dollars. Now I can read anything I want.

~

Stories lie. No matter what is said by old people and other authorities, stories are not real. It’s all bullshit. There is no greater storyteller than a thief. Storytellers are themselves thieves. By his retelling of the story, he steals; he takes away truth, opinion. You can’t argue with a storyteller. They will either ask you to keep quiet while they talk or create another lie and tuck you back into bed. Stories are dead artefacts, cultural scars, masks buried in fine sand. Never in my life will I ever believe a story.

~

My father and I would, on occasion, discuss whatever ‘new thing’ had emerged in any of our common interests. Advances in digital media; the problems with conservative government. A re-released and remastered Miles Davis album: my father always insisted that Miles Davis ceased to be Miles Davis after the release of Bitches Brew in 1969. No matter how well I argued in favour of the album – how a great deal of music since then used it as a reference and inspiration – my father would insist that the Golden Age Of Jazz ended with that album’s release. He just would not understand that rhythms as well as notes could be improvised.

~

I was always building things with my father. We worked on lawn chairs, we raised a wooden fort over the three compost piles in the backyard, we would build little electric motors. There exist pictures of us rebuilding the entire side of our house. I’m trying to be like father: holding the hammer like him, wearing boots and safety goggles. I might look a bit like him, but the glasses don’t fit properly. I do still like to build things though.

~

I can remember my favourite times with my father. We would be watching television or listening to music, my face resting on his stomach. There was a certain warmth that I felt then, one that I’ve always tried returning to. I will never forget his smell; there is no smell in the world like that of your father when he hugs you. During my life he has always had a large stomach, but I’ve never been ashamed of my father. I liked the way it felt under me when he breathed. I rose up and down in a constant and pleasing rhythm. Long before any real concrete ideas of masculinity had entered into my life, I was never embarrassed to feel this way. My artificially-protective shell was not yet formed.

I soon learned that real men have no desires or feelings, only the desire to feel.

~

There is nothing easier than an ending. You know what to do with an ending. No contradictions, no argument. Just a period or a fade-to-black. THE END. You laugh or cry, or you leave the theatre.

~

The first thing that I remember about my father is his voice. He always had a very soothing voice, and it remains the same now that he has entered into old age. Even when he yelled it was a pleasant voice. Oddly, yelling is a part of his more loveable patterns. Every day when he comes home from work he announces his entrance with a melodious “hel-lo”, rarely varying the pitch or timing as the weeks pass.

My father can’t dance, but he sure can sing when he wants to.